


so cruelly you kissed me

by litathesissy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Power Play, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22161235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litathesissy/pseuds/litathesissy
Summary: Jaskier is a soft thing.Delicate in all the ways Geralt is not.He supposes this is always true, always obvious.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 48
Kudos: 959





	so cruelly you kissed me

Jaskier is a soft thing. Delicate in all the ways Geralt is not. He supposes this is always true, always obvious. They must make quite the pair, in whatever backwater town or city they float through.

It’s his size, his disposition, that puts Geralt on edge when the fool refuses to stay behind on hunts, from the dangers of combat. The bard’s slight frame was not built for it, better suited to songs and romance, flowery words drifting in and out of taverns. _Soft_. Harmless.

But there is no time when their differences are most on display than in the intimate moments stolen between jobs and inns and _cold, cold_ campsites.

The picture Jaskier makes, trembling under Geralt’s hands as they wrap around his waist, where his fingers could meet around the beautiful curve of it with no difficulty. Small. Like he was nothing, when he was in fact everything.

The only times he was ever truly quiet was under Geralt’s hulking frame. Swallowed up in it like a rising tide, Jas surrendering underneath it every time,

under moonlight,

under a decaying ceiling,

happily at the White Wolf’s _mercy_.

It was mostly always like this, always.

But, then, there were other times. Rare times that the Butcher of Blaviken found himself at the charity of his little bard instead.

Like the night—

They find themselves in a farmer’s guest house as repayment for dispatching a kikimora. They’re both fresh from hot baths, caressing one another softly on a large bed, bodies half under thick animal pelts.

“I don’t understand how a man so big and scary could also be...like _this_.” Jaskier says, following with his fingertips the vein that runs along the Witcher’s bicep.

Geralt smirks, hiding it in the shell of his lover’s ear.

“Like what?” He teases.

Jaskier squirms against him, tickled by the ever present growl of his voice.

“You know what I mean, you brute,” he’s half laughing, lifting his head to look at Geralt, “Like you’re not a wolf at all. Just a...”

And he smiles then, all teeth and no malice,

“Like a well trained dog.”

Geralt hums at that, neither flattered nor insulted.

“Does that make you my master, then?”

Small fingers gather at the base of his chest, rooting themselves on the thick white hairs there, “Perhaps,” Jaskier says, then he’s on him. Lifting himself, completely straddling Geralt’s middle.

The Witcher can’t help but stare between them, how widely Jaskier has to bend his legs outward just to sit properly upon him. Geralt’s squeezes his hands where they have settled, around the fleshy parts of his bard’s lovely thighs.

“That would make for less interesting songs, wouldn’t it?” Geralt squeezes harder, kneading the skin there.

In the dying firelight, the sharp of Jaskier’s teeth gleam like silver.

“I have to disagree, love.” He whispers, beginning to rock back and forth. Geralt could feel himself hardening under Jaskier’s ministrations, heat pooling in his groin.

Jas grabs his hands, leads them away from his maddening hips to the headboard, holds them there.

Leans down, no longer smiling, “I think it would make a beautiful song indeed,” and Jaskier kisses him then, open mouthed and wanting.

Geralt groans into it, lifts his own hips in tandem to the bard’s incessant grinding. Could feel himself getting lost in all of it; the slight weight upon him, the scent of pine and amber wafting in the air thickened by lust, and of course the ever-present need he only ever seems to feel for Jaskier, only him.

It was beginning to become too much for an impatient being like himself, Geralt wanted, no, _needed_ , Jaskier underneath him. Needed him mewling for more and crying out in pleasure to the silent heavens above them—

So he tried to reach for his lovely bard to do just that, but to his surprise was met with resistance.

A small giggle then, as Jaskier leaned back again, resting his hands on the solid stretch of Geralt’s stomach. But Geralt’s hands stayed where they were, and he could feel it then, a _rope_ , keeping him there.

“I thought we could try something different tonight,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “Only if you want to.”

_And_..

And this was different.

Never in his many, many years on this cursed earth has Geralt felt helpless. And though, truth be told, it would be nothing for him to rip free from the fabric, something was stopping him from doing so. Perhaps, what was rendering helpless was not the fabric at all, but the weight behind the crystalline pair of eyes looking down upon him.

“Very well,” he says carefully. “Whatever my little bird wants.”

“Little bird?” Jaskier says, reaching for the vial of oil on the dresser. “I thought we agreed on Master?”

Geralt chuckles, eyes following the oil as Jaskier pours it over his fingers. “Don’t push your—“

Jaskier flips around then, his exquisite arse in full view and the words get caught in Geralt’s throat. Because it is glorious, and even more so when Jas bends forward just so, exposing the furled skin between.

“What’s the matter, Witcher?”

He reaches back, massages the rim with oil, slow and deliberate.

Geralt is quiet, mouth dry.

After a moment a finger breeches inside, and Jaskier lets out sweet gasp. Geralt knows how much better he could make his bard feel, his own fingers almost double the size of Jaskier’s. Instead of gasping he’d be moaning, every thrust hitting that lovely button inside of him that made Jaskier mindless and limp.

But his small lover continues with his slow stretching; one finger, then two, then three.

By then, Geralt is sweating profusely. He feels the tension in his neck, in his arms as they ache from being tied. He’s so hard, so entranced, he’s never been more _aroused_.

He wants to touch,

To taste,

_To hell with the fucking rope, he’ll break it, take what’s his_ ,

But then—

Jaskier eases his fingers out, grabs each full cheek in hand and spreads them out and perhaps Geralt admits that he is now the mindless one because he just groans, can’t even speak.

Jaskier can surely feel the stiffening in his muscles, takes pity on his lover, says—

“Oh, _fuck_ , Geralt, need to ride you,”

Geralt growls, low in his chest. “Fucking do it then,”

Jaskier remains with his back towards Geralt as he grabs his heavy cock, slicks it with oil, rubs it up and down twice.

Geralt throws his head back and tries not to release, so close already from just _watching_ , and it’s too much to bear. He feels like a beast being broken, tamed.

When Jaskier finally allows him inside, it’s only an inch and he stops. He looks over the slope of his shoulder, eyes as far gone as Geralt feels.

“Oh, gods,” Geralt says, because he can see himself, where he ends and Jaskier begins. And though he’s not one for exaggerations, _one for flowery talk_ , he knows he will not see a sight as beautiful as this for the rest of his days.

A raspy _Geralt_ is all Jaskier says, and he’s sinking down, delicious heat and pressure. Geralt has to close his eyes, surrenders to it.

Overwhelmed.

Opens his eyes to Jaskier’s shining back, silhouetted by the fire. How he wishes to run his hands along that graceful spine, counts the knobs underneath.

Those sinful hips begin to undulate, taking what it wants from the Witcher.

Geralt is so far gone he could only watch his length disappear and reappear from inside Jaskier, raw and savage but so, so lovely.

He could hear Jaskier’s lilting cries, going higher in pitch but he doesn’t even care if the farmer hears downstairs. _Matters little_ , when there is this to experience. But there is so much more to be had, and Geralt is greedy for it. Needs more like he needs air. 

“Jas...need to see you,” Geralt manages.

Jaskier’s hips slow to a sinful rhythm, “Hm...” is all he says.

“Jas,” he pleads, a guttural, rough thing in his throat.

And the bard seems hellbent on driving Geralt crazy, because he only slows down more, now hardly lifting himself up but keeping Geralt captive inside him.

“I’ll turn around...if you call me ‘Master’,” Jas says, voice low and shattered.

Geralt breathes through his nose, tries to keep himself from just breaking the flimsy headboard itself and _taking_. Jaskier gives an experimental roll, reminding Geralt what he stands to gain, and Geralt supposes, just this once, he might be able to acquiesce.

“Alright, fine, yes” he swallows, “Master...”

“ _Master_ , what?”

Geralt grouses, legs already unbearably tense, “Master, please may I look upon your comely visage as you ride my cock?”

And he means it to come out sarcastically, he does, but it sounds desperate even to his own ears. Jaskier seems pleased, of course, and he turns around swiftly. He’s pink cheeked, lips swollen from biting on to them in the throes of pleasure.

“How could I say no to that?”

They were lost then, to each other. As Jaskier began to ride him in earnest, Geralt muted all other thoughts. There was only this, his bard atop him, moving his lithe body in ways Geralt did not know he could.

Jaskier was lost, head thrown back, golden and dark all at once in the shadows of the room—

And Geralt was coming,

Felt his spend ooze around his groin as Jaskier continued to ride him through it, messy and wet.

“ _Oh, oh_ ,” Jaskier moans, wrapping his delicate fingers around himself as lifts himself off Geralt. He scoots forward, Geralt taking him in his mouth and swallowing around the velvety length of him. Jaskier releases almost instantly and Geralt swallows it all down. Groans around it.

“ _Love_ ,” Jaskier laughs, stupid from their coupling and tired.

And maybe Geralt is _bewitched_ , because he rips his hands free from the ropes like it was paper, wraps his arms around Jaskier. Kisses him, pushes an answering “ _love_ ” through his plush lips and they roll over, holding on to one another tightly.

They’re breathing heavily in the small space between them, sharing the air and the diminishing heat. Geralt looks at Jaskier, eyes closed now, soft in repose. He moves a strand of sweaty hair from his forehead, kisses him there.

Jaskier smiles, eyes still closed.

His small hands find Geralt’s own large ones.

**Author's Note:**

> Please accept my meager donation to the fandom <3
> 
> title from ‘the killing moon’ by echo and the bunnymen, but was listening to roman remains cover of it while writing. it’s quite sexy, give it a listen ;)


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